


What Do I Have to Do (To Make a Hit With You)?

by objectlesson



Category: Spies In Disguise (2019)
Genre: Dancing, Dancing Lessons, Drinking, First Time, Fluff, Implied Sex but its not explicit this time, M/M, Pining, Swing Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22850356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Walter only downloads Tinder as an act of solidarity.
Relationships: Marcy/Eyes (on the side), Walter Beckett/Lance Sterling
Comments: 46
Kudos: 530





	What Do I Have to Do (To Make a Hit With You)?

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy, it is very very me to start producing tons and tons of content for a fandom hardly anyone reads in, so here's another spies in disguise fic!! Thank you so much to the sweet handful of people who have been reading these. I'm in the middle of a very big move and don't have a ton of bandwidth for angst or complex characters, so its been so much fun to just crank out tons and tons about these two cuties. Thanks for reading! This particular one the sex is implied but I still think its sexy. I hope y'all enjoy <3

Walter only downloads Tinder as an act of solidarity. 

He and Eyes are getting drinks at their favorite dive bar after work, which they've been doing every Wednesday and Friday since they discovered they shared the same dirty little secret. The first few times, it was just to dish and commiserate. They’d get tipsy and complain about their respective impossible work crushes, go on and on about how annoying it was to be in love with very sexy, very competent, very unattainable spies. 

But Marcy recently got a girlfriend and Eyes is apparently now on a _mission_ to get over her. Walter, on the other hand, is perfectly happy to endlessly, pointlessly pine over Lance without anything ever happening. The way he feels doesn’t even _seem_ like something he _can_ get over. It’s in his blood, in his bones, and he’s resigned to the fact he’s doomed to love someone he can never have for the rest of whole stupid life. He even feels a little betrayed that Eyes is so motivated to move on, but she swears it’s better for both of them. 

“Listen, Walter. Nothing is _ever going to happen!_ Lance is going to get some gorgeous girlfriend before you know it and bring her home and you’ll have to hear them having sex through the walls and _hate_ yourself. Your heart is going to get broken. Get out while you still can,” she warns, stabbing her straw repeatedly into the ice at the bottom of her glass before she gestures at the bartender to bring her another. Her usually neat red bun is frizzier than usual, little fly-away baby hairs framing her face, coming undone from the elastic. On top of that, her eyes are red-rimmed behind the lenses of her glasses like she spent the night crying. Walter really, really wants to help, but he’s not sure how. 

“Um, my heart is _already_ broken. And I know nothing is gonna happen, I don’t _need_ it to,” he explains, spinning on his barstool so the neon Budweiser sign opposite him turns into a streaky blur. “I never had actual _hope_ , like. Marcy is gay, so maybe you were holding out. But Lance isn’t. I’ve resigned myself to the fact he’ll probably get a girlfriend at some point…if he does and it sucks too bad I’ll just move out. Our living situation is supposedly temporary anyway.” 

Marcy sighs, sucking down a generous gulp of her Dirty Shirley before fishing out the cherry. “I’m just saying, it’s not _healthy_ to live with Lance and torture yourself all the time. You need to _date,_ we both do. I think we’ve been enabling each other, but we need to _bolster,_ instead.” 

Walter knows on some level she’s right, but his insides wither at the thought of dating all the same. He clutches his mimosa defensively. “I’m _bad_ at dating. I didn’t even date _before_ I caught feelings for Lance. Dating sucks.” 

Eyes shoots him a pitying look. “Walter, I say this as your friend who loves you: there are other, more viable fish in the sea. Actually gay fish. And you are going to stay miserable if you don't at least _try_ to meet some of them,” she urges, lips pursed around her straw before her eyes widen, like she’s just been struck with a revelation. “Wait! What if we join dating apps together?! I’ll never do it on my own because I freak every time I need to fill out the little profile thingies, but if you help me, I’ll help you. I know all your best qualities, anyway.” 

Walter frowns, considering it. He supposes he can download an app in support just to appease Eyes, and then never use it. It might even be good for him, to stick his toe in the water carefully, feel it out. He _is_ lonely most of the time and it _does_ suck, being single and living in such close, maddening proximity someone he’ll never have.

So, he orders another mimosa and takes out his phone. “Ok, fine,” he says, handing it over to Eyes. “Download tinder and write me a profile. I’ll write yours. I have one hundred nice things to say about you, anyway, shouldn’t be hard.” 

She fist-pumps, kicking the air excitedly. “Fuck yes! Here’s to taking control of our lives! Here’s to…20-gay-20!” 

And they clink their glasses, and get to work. 

—-

Walter fully forgets about the dating profile for a few days, until he gets a text from Eyes while he’s pacing around his room, circling the make-shift lab in the corner awaiting a reaction. _Howis tinder going?! I’m talking to a few girls and gonna get coffee with one tommorow. eat your heart our marcy. any prospects?_

He feels a little guilty, because he hasn’t even _opened_ the app since they downloaded it. Before answering he clicks it open, astounded to see he actually has a few swipes. He looks through them, cheeks hot because it’s extremely unsettling and also flattering to know _anyone_ looked at a picture and blurb about him and was interested enough to do something about it. He hammers out a text to Eyes reading: _some guys actually swiped right on me??? what do i do? h_ e asks, hands sweating around his phone. He must be exuding anxiety because Lovey leaves her perch to land on his head, picking at his hair and cooing in concern. He reaches up and absently pets her, trying to figure out if the profiles are even _real._ They seem pretty legit, though. Rick, 24, likes kayaking and camping. Jonathan, 31, animal lover and micro-brew expert. Both are average, sort of cute white guys. Walter swipes left on both, because he’s a disaster in the great outdoors and generally hates beer, but then he feels bad right afterwards. Is he being too picky? Should he act more desperate? Is he an asshole for ruling guys out based on so little information. _Eyes i’m bad at this_ he texts, frowning. 

_Just swipe right!!! message them!!! cast ur line friend._

He groans aloud, tugging at his collar as he examines profiles because suddenly it feels very itchy and irritating against his skin. Most of the guys are significantly older than him which is, on the one hand, very appealing because Walter _loves_ the idea of a capable middle aged man taking care of him, and in his opinion older men are generally hotter (Case in Point: Lance Sterling). However, he’s got to wonder about the sort of fifty-three year old who swipes right on a twenty one year old on a dating app. He’s sort of worried about his safety in that context, so vetoes every guy over thirty five. This leaves one single option: Jose, 22, profile reading “painfully awkward poli-sci student who drinks too much coffee and never sleeps.” It’s hard to tell what he looks like from the photo, which is a sort of arty library shot of him covering his face, but he’s around Walter’s age, at least has nice arms, and Walter appreciates the self-deprecating tone to his profile. Plus, awkward is probably good. Walter is also very awkward, so maybe they'll just be so awkward in their messages they never have to meet and he can pretend he ever let Eyes talk him into this thing. _Ok, swiped on a guy. i’ll let u know what happens. good luck with coffee girl!!!_

As soon as he sends the text, the reaction he was waiting for happens and a beaker shatters, sending glass fragments and pink, chemical foam all over his desk. Lovey is cooing very fiercely, and Walter sighs before scrubbing a hand through his hair, hoping this isn’t a premonition of things to come. 

—-

When the weekend rolls around, Eyes is already making plans for her second date with coffee girl, and Walter is decidedly ignoring the message he has from Jose, 22. 

It’s Saturday night and Lance is cooking for them, making his own goddamned _pasta_ for _ravioli_ because he’s perfect and Walter is so, so in love with him. There’s just _no way_ some twenty two year old student from tinder is gonna even come close to Lance Sterling, who is six foot two, looks like a model, makes his own ravioli, and buys Walter his favorite pink Moscato even though he hates sweet wine himself. It’s annoying, because Lance is the perfect boyfriend, even if he’s _not_ Walter’s boyfriend. He’s just that nice of a roommate it _feels_ like he is. He’s present and attentive and funny and sweet and that honestly makes it _really_ hard for Walter to make himself go on a date when he _knows_ it will be ten times more awkward and less fun than hanging out with Lance at their house. 

So, he's helping out in the kitchen sipping wine, watching Lance cut out little pasta-squares with a tiny rolling pasta cutter while they listen to Etta James. He’s also pretending the one guy he swiped right on didn’t leave anything in his inbox and that Eyes isn’t blowing up his phone. 

“You gonna get all those texts? Or are you avoiding someone?” Lance asks, shooting Walter a look over his shoulder as he pours himself another neat whiskey. Walter hates whiskey but he loves the warm amber color of it in the stout, heavy little glasses Lance uses, and he’s also pretty sure he would like the taste of it secondhand on Lance’s tongue, but. That'll never happen, so he just stares instead, blinking through the haze of wine-tipsy static dancing around his peripheral vision. 

“Oh, it’s Eyes. She’s on a second date with this girl and live-texting me updates, I think. But I don’t want to engage because then she'll ask me for updates on _my_ love life and there aren’t any,” Walter explains, feeling loose-lipped because Moscato has that effect on him, and he might be in love with Lance but he’s still very easy to talk to, so. “We were supposed to download tinder together and start actually dating but she’s much better at it,” he explains. Lance uses his hip to close the door of the fridge with a decided snap, turning around with wide eyes beneath arched brows. He’s looking very intently at Walter but his expression is guarded, unreadable, and it makes Walter’s stomach drop. “What?!” 

“Just—hm. Didn't know you dated.” 

“I don’t! I’m only supposed to so I can support _her._ I downloaded tinder and swiped right on a guy but I’m afraid to look at the message he sent and—ugh. C’mon I don’t want to talk about this, that’s why m’ignoring my phone.” 

Lance shakes his head, throws back some whiskey, and sets his glass down on the granite counter with a clink. There’s flour on the front of his black slacks from the pasta and Walter can’t stop staring, because this is who he is, _how_ he is. He can’ invest in anyone else because he’s so _very_ invested in Lance. “Nah, look, you deserve to go out on a date. The guy likes you? Let’s see what he said.” 

“Oh my god _no,_ not with you here! I’d have to go lock myself in the bathroom and read it and freak out for an hour if I were gonna look. It’s a whole ordeal,” Walter says, clutching his phone as Lance approaches. 

“Why? Do you like _him?_ What’s his name?” Lance asks, grinning all teasingly in this way that one hundred percent goes straight to Walter’s dick. He's eying the phone, brushing more flour from his hands on his pants like he’s preparing to grab it, and Walter’s heart is going crazy in his chest at the thought. He has no idea why Lance _cares_ so much, why he seems so interested. He wouldn’t have brought it up at all if he knew he'd side with Eyes and _dig_ about it. 

“Um, his name is Jose and no, I don’t even _know_ him! He was just the only one of the guys who swiped on me who didn’t seem boring or like a creep,” Walter explains, reflexively opening the app because he feels like if he doesn’t, Lance is gonna take his phone and do it for him. Sure enough, Lance stops in his tracks as soon as Walter clicks on the message from him. “Ugh,” he says, reading. “He wants to meet me.” 

“Meet you where? Doing what? This a bootycall, boy? Do you need a chaperone?” he asks, raising one of those extremely well groomed eyebrows in a highly attractive and extremely distracting fashion. “Because if you ever need—”

“Oh my god _no,_ it’s not a bootycall. It’s. He wants to take me _dancing?!”_ Walter says, narrowing his eyes in disbelief as he reads the message. _Hi, you’re very cute! would love to take you swing dancing,_ is what it says. “Not even to a club, _swing_ dancing.” 

Lance makes a face. “Do you secretly swing dance?” 

“No!I have no idea where he came up with that. _Hey!”_ he yelps as Lance swipes the phone out of his hand, getting flour all over it and holding unreachably high above Walter’s head. His insides are roiling, cheeks hot, because something about Lance Sterling stealing his phone to protectively read his tinder messages is really fucking sexy. He whimpers, giving up to slump agint the counter pitifully and chug more wine. “You’re as bas as Eyes. Why do you guys want me to go on a date so bad?” 

Lance ignores the question. “Kid. He asked you out swing dancing because your profile told him to,” he says, looking down at him incredulously. 

“It does?! Shit, I haven’t even read it yet. Eyes made the profile.” 

“ _Walter, 21. Bill Nye the Sweet, Sexy Science Guy. I’m a lightweight so take me dancing or to the aquarium instead of to a bar. Must love birds._ Is what she wrote. And she used _this_ selfie,” Lance says, flipping the phone around to show Walter a picture of himself extremely hammered at Last year’s holiday party, shirt off and neon green shutter shades from like, 2011 on his very red face. “Not the photo _I_ would have chose, but hey. Maybe she knows more about this tinder thing than me, m’old.” 

Walter snaps his phone back, staring. “Bill Nye the _sweet sexy science guy?!_ It’s literally _amazing_ anyone swiped right at all. Note to self, do not let a lesbian write your dating profile.” 

Lance laughs, shaking his head and pressing his glass thoughtfully to his lower lip before turning back to the pasta. “If you want to learn to dance Swing, I could teach you some moves,” he says then, shrugging. “I know some salsa, too. I took a ballroom class for a minute. Helps with going undercover, to know how to dance.” 

Walter stares, convinced he hasn't heard this right. “You—what?” he asks, blinking, hurrying to the fridge to busy himself with refilling his wine because he needs to be about ten times more numb right now. “You know how to swing dance?” 

“A bit, yeah, enough to pass on so you don't show up to this date looking like an idiot,” Lance says. he looks at Walter then, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves before starting to roll them slowly and deliberately up his sinewy brown forearms. Walter starts to sweat. “I could show you,” he says then.

And because he has no self preservation instinct and no dignity to speak of, Walter chokes out “ok, yeah, sure.” Even though he has no intention of going on a date with Jose. Even though dancing in the kitchen with Lance Sterling _is the exact thing_ Eyes was trying to get him to stop doing. 

But there’s really only so much Walter can say no to, where Lance is concerned. 

—-

“Ok, so, who’s gonna be the girl when you dance with this kid?” Lance asks, and Walter fucking spits out his wine, erupting into a coughing fit. 

“I can’t believe you just asked me that,” Walter sputters. 

“Oh my god, I didn't mean it in a! Not in the way you think. It’s for the _dancing,”_ Lance explains, stepping in, grabbing Water by the elbows and thumbing into them so sweet Walter practically swoons. They’re both laughing now, and the room feels so _hot_ his cheeks are flushing. “Who’s gonna lead?” Lance corrects. 

“God, I dunno? We’ll probably figure it out in the moment…unless he's really tall. I dunno. You lead because you’re tall,” he says nonchalantly, even though he feels anything but nonchalant. His heart is pounding, his hands perspiration damp as holds them open expectantly. “Ok, what do I do?” 

“Alright, in swing the leader stands to your left, so get over here,” he explains, steering Walter by his shoulders into place. It’s dizzying, Lance feels so hard and warm and very _close,_ and there’s a chance Walter might faint. He finishes his wine quickly, hoping it’ll help him survive this thing. “Now, I put my hand here, on your waist,” Lance mumbles, as he curls a strong arm around Walter’s middle, pulling him even closer, stealing his breath. “You just kind of touch my mid-back with your palm, you don’t have to hold on.” 

“Ugh, this is gonna be so awkward with a guy I've never met,” Walter whines, so he has an excuse to whine because this whole _situation_ is whine-worthy. Lance smells so _good_ , like expensive cologne and aftershave and the turpentine bite of whiskey, his dress shirt crisp under Walter’s fingers as he tentatively lays them over the muscle framing his spine. 

“Shh, you’ll do fine. You’ll like it. S’an excuse to get cozy right off the bat, huh?” Lance asks, waggling his eyebrows, which makes Walter want to die, because he’s currently using it as an excuse to get cozy _to Lance._ This probably makes him a bad, sneaky friend. “Plus, now you’ll actually know a little swing to impress him.” 

“Ok,” Walter says miserably, cheeks so hot as he tries to duck his face out of Lance’s gaze. “What do I do with this hand?” 

Lance holds his free palm spread wide, “Drop it right down here,” he says, and then, without further warning, their hands are clasped out in front of them, bodies flush from hip to chest, steady and firm. “You ready? First steps called a rock-step. Lots of swing dance is just sort of walking in place in different rhythms.” 

Walter is not ready, but he nods all the same as Lance starts to whisk him around around the kitchen to Etta James. 

—-

He learns the three step, the rock step, the kick-ball-change, and the pass-by all with little difficulty save for the way he keeps tripping in his own feet every time he gets lost in staring at the cords of Lance’s neck. Still, he’s getting the hang of it, and it’s actually really _fun._ Lance counts out each beat and guides him gently but securely, and every time he nails a move, he'll cheer, spin him, dip him and Walter’s heart still stop for a moment because he’s so fucking in love. The thing is, he can tell Lance is having a good time, too, that this isn’t a chore for him. He smiles the whole time, is eager to move on to new, more complicated maneuvers. “Ok, we gotta take a break, I gotta form these ravioli, come help,” he says eventually, peeling away without letting go of Walter’s hand. “We’ll let them sit in the fridge for a minute after they’re together to stiffen up a little, and after that I’ll show you the count tuck turn and the count cuddle.” 

Walter’s eyes widen. “The _what?_ I—I don’t want to dance _too_ close to this guy, I’m only just meeting him.” 

“It’s not an _actual_ cuddle-cuddle, it’s swing. Swing’s a pretty chaste dance if we’re comparing—you’re lucky he didn’t ask you out to a salsa club,” Lance jokes, using their joined hands to pull Walter very close, shimmy-grinding up and down his body for a second, grinning. 

Walter tries to grin back, but he also can’t breathe, heart pounding in his chest. Lance lets him go and refills his whiskey, taking a long, measured sip before saying. “C’mere, I’ll show you the cuddle. It’s easy.” 

“Um. What about the ravioli?” Walter asks in a panic, hands tingling, cheeks hot. He’s starting to feel _really_ drunk, not just on wine but on _Lance_ , Lance’s dark eyes burning into him, the white flash of his smile, the spread of his big hand so broad and warm on his side, heat bleeding through his tee-shirt and onto his skin. He wants him _so_ bad pretty much all of the time, but it’s different when Lance is _touching_ him, when he can smell the burn of liquor and salt on his breath, when he can see sweat beading at his temple under the glare of the kitchen lights in hyper close detail. When he can imagine what it might be like to _actually_ dance with him, what it might be like for Lance to lay him out in his bed, kiss down his sternum, bend him in half an fuck him sweet and tender. It’s traumatizing, and he thinks he should put an end to this before he implodes, but Lance has other plans. 

“Ravioli can wait. C’mon boy,” he says, gesturing for Walter to get closer, tugging him in with his fingers curled around his wrist so he thumps solidly against his body, getting flour all over his own clothes. “Ok So. We start with just our hands in the open position facing each other,” Lance explains, arranging Walter exactly where he wants him. “Anddd…we do a standard pass by… and then I’ll need your other hand. It’s a quick exchange so m’gonna start with your elbow as a connection point, like this,” he says, fingers lightly brushing from Walter’s elbow down to his wrist in a long, tingling motion, so both of their hands end up joined and they’re facing each other, eyes locked. Walter’s heart is all over the place, his eyes wide and mouth open, and he wonders if Lance can _tell,_ somehow, what this is doing to him. How lost in longing he really is. “Now,” Lance says, squeezing both his hands with a sweet, reassuring pressure. “I’m gonna lift my hand, and you’re gonna come towards it and sort of duck under, rotating to the left…that’s it,” Lance murmurs, smiling as Walter does exactly what he’s told. 

“Um. What does _my_ left arm do?” Walter asks, feeling it crunching up at his side awkwardly.

“You just drop it down to your middle, we’re gonna stay holding hands crossed like this. Here, I’ll pull you, you’ll see.” 

Lance unwinds them then and repeats the motion, tugging Walter in under his arm and twirling him, so they’re facing the same direction with the hands gripped and arms crossed like swords, Walter’s back pressed into the broad, solid frame of Lance’s chest. It is _very_ much like a cuddle-cuddle, he decides. “Ok,” he breathes, dizzy and giddy and trembling all over. “I think I got it.” 

Up until this point, Lance would have just let go of him, clapped, and taken it from the top, but he’s staying here now, nodding closer so his cheek brushes his hair, breath hot against Walter’s temple as he gazes down at him with hooded eyes. “Damn,” he murmurrs, shaking his head. “I hope that boy taking you out knows how fucking lucky he is.” 

Walter’s heart stops, his mouth goes dry. When his pulse _does_ pick up again it’s roaring in his ears, so loud he thinks he might have gone deaf, and _that’s_ why he’s heard Lance say this impossible thing. But then Lance gently thumbs across his wrist, and the whole world comes crashing down and he has to tear away. “Um. What?” He gasps, sure he’s misheard something, _sure_ he’s fucked it up somehow. 

Lance was warm and soft only seconds before, melting into him, but now he’s hardening up, pulling away to rub a hand over his short hair and stumble to the opposite counter for his drink. “Nothing, forget it. M’drunk,” he announces in a mumble, throwing back the rest of his whiskey and shuddering, tilting back to stare at the ceiling. “Fuck.” 

“Wait— _hey,”_ Walter chokes out, stumbling across the tile, throat tight with disbelief. “You’re not _that_ drunk, tell me what you meant.” 

He expects Lance to wave a lazy hand through the air, dispel the tension and pretend nothing ever happened, but that’s not what he does, not at all. He leans against the counter, swirling the contents of his glass in a circular motion, staring at the little whirlpool resolutely with his lips pursed into a flat line. “I just…s’alright. I know m’not your type, that I’m too old and probably too black and whatever else, and I. I don’t want to be jealous, but. I’m human,” he says, shrugging, taking a swig. “But don’t let it stop you from going out. I knew it was a matter of time before you got some cute young boyfriend.” 

Walter stares, hands sweating so much he has to wipe them on the front of his jeans. He shakes his head, scrunches his eyes shut, and _still,_ nothing changes. Lance continues to stare into his drink, and offer no further explanation for anything he’s just said. 

“Are you—are you telling me you’re _jealous_ some guy messaged me on _tinder?”_ he finally forces out, making a fistful in his own hair and tugging, to make sure hes awake, that this is actually happening. “Because like—Lance I literally _only_ let Eyes make the profile for me because she was giving me a hard time about having a crush on _you._ Telling me you were gonna get a girlfriend and break my heart and I thought…I totally thought she was right. I had no _idea_ I had a chance. I mean. If _I do_ have a chance. I—maybe I’m reading this wrong,” he mumbles, voice dissolving into something unintelligible at the end because he really can’t believe any of this enough to trust he’s safe to _confess._ That he’s loved Lance this whole time, that he’s only trying dating to _get over him. “_ Oh my _god,_ I’m sorryI’m so awkward.” 

Lance shakes his head, though, studies Walter a long time, face heavily guarded, before setting his glass down beside the stove and walking across the kitchen, stride deliberate, slow. “You’re not—you’re perfect,” Lance mumbles, and then he’s cupping Walter’s burning face, thumbing up his jaw, looking at him so _carefully,_ like he’s half convinced he's going to bolt any moment and shatter this whole moment to dust and flour. “Hey. How about, instead of going on that date, you let _me_ take you out swing dancing, huh?” Lance asks, dipping closer, pressing his brow into Walter’s as an anchor point to keep them both from falling. 

“Sounds one thousand times better than some shitty date with a stranger,” Walter mumbles out, hands moving to curl around Lance’s bare forearms. Skin slides over muscle, tendon flexes, and Walter feels his eyelashes flutter in overwhelm. “Jesus. Can I kiss you?”

Lance answers with a stilted gasp, and a rough, hungry press of his lips. Walter feels like he's drowning, like he’s an oyster splitting under the sea to spit out a pearl as Lance licks into his mouth, so sweet, so slick. And he realizes he really _does_ like the taste of Whiskey, if it’s on Lance’s tongue, Lance’s breath. 

—-

Later that night, when it’s technically the next morning and they’re only _just_ getting the ravioli into boiling water, Lance kisses all the marks he left on Walter’s neck while Walter grates parmesan. “ _God,_ I am so fucking glad I don’t have to think about some college boy doing a count cuddle with you.” 

Walter snorts, grinning. “I thought it wasn't a _real_ cuddle-cuddle though.” 

“I mean, it’s whatever you make it. You saw. You saw me put the moves on you teaching swing,” he mumbles.

“It was very impressive, for such a _chaste_ dance,” Walter announces, spinning around and looping his arms around Lance’s neck. His whole body is shivery and weak from coming so hard, from somehow, so _magically_ getting everything he’s ever wanted. He grins a messy wild grin into Lance’s stubble rough throat and murmurs, “I should _really_ text Eyes back and fill her in, but I also don’t want to make her sad. She’s mega in love with Marcy and only _just_ starting to branch out and date other girls. I don’t want to send her into a spiral or anything.” 

“Wait, _what?”_ Lance asks, peeling away from Walter to grip his shoulders and look him in the eye. “ _Marcy’s_ had a thing for Eyes for like…damn, months at least. We’ve been getting drinks together to mope about having weird awkward feelings for our coworkers,” he explains. “Can we play matchmaker? Is that weird?” 

“What?! Eyes and I were doing the _same thing_ about you guys. This is peak gay cultre,”Walter says as his heart leaps up into his throat, chest clenching around his _not at all broken_ and _totally mended heart._ “And as their trusted confidants, I don’t think playing matchmaker is weird at all,” he says, pouring them both shots of whiskey, Lance’s significantly bigger than his own because he knows he’s gonna hate it straight like this. “Cheers to team weird also being team gay,” he says. “Eyes is gonna lose her shit.” 

Their glasses clink together, and Walter throws back his half-mouthful, wincing all the while. As soon as he’s swallowed he’s coughing, but Lance presses in to kiss him, to soften the burn, lick way the sting, arm curled tight around his waist like he’s leading him to dance.


End file.
